


humanity's hope

by wrenkos



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Apocalypse, Death, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Spoilers, but like an au to wall-e, if you really really squint and think really hard about it then you can imagine it as wall-e
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-08 21:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14702991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenkos/pseuds/wrenkos
Summary: If only this were another world, he thinks, where Kiibo wasn’t designed for passing on the stories of humanity. Then perhaps he would have more time than a handful of months to give them the love they deserved. Perhaps he would have time to raise them like his own child; like one that was human, one that wasn’t meant to live while the rest of them died.In a world where humanity is to die, Kiibo is created for hope.





	1. i: live on.

**Author's Note:**

> tw: death and talk of suicide. stay safe.  
> MAJOR SPOILERS.
> 
> basically, this takes place as an au where the gofer project does not exist, nor does team danganronpa, and kiibo was created for humanity's hope to live on via him by professor idabashi. the other kids? :) soon.
> 
> (also kiibo here uses they/them pronouns!)

The headlines of news speak of an end to humanity, where it is doomed. Some say Earth should lie down and die, others say they should combat it. Some say hiding in bunkers will be the key to survival.

[Is The World Really Doomed?]

[Humanity Panics Once Meteorite Announcement is Made]

[Projects for the Survival of Humanity are Announced - Real or Fake?!]

Society is split between food flying off the shelves and none taken at all. Mass suicides rage across the world, everyone fights and fights and fights when it is the last months left.

[What’s Recommended for Survival: an Extensive Guide]

[10 Ways to Live Out Your Last Days]

[Vacations and Flights Sell Out!]

Months turn to weeks. Weeks turn to days.

Headlines say you should spend your last days with family, with friends. Others say that you should do whatever you want - destruction, corruption, anything you want.

In a laboratory, far, far underground, Professor Idabashi completes his final model of his own creation; a robot, dubbed Kiibo. He knows the Earth is doomed - these days, there is nothing else to talk about - but he wants to leave his mark when the meteorite will destroy all else.

With all the shock-absorbing energy he could possibly afford, the scientist had created a robot in hopes of another life arriving on Earth, with Kiibo left to tell humanities tales. He knows that the robot may not succeeded in this endeavor, but he wants them to know.

He turns their “on” button on, on their back. Their eyes glow, blue like his own, the color of the sky if it does not exist anymore.

_> >> K1.B0.5.3.3.exe: STARTING UP…_

The robot blinks up, and their head turns, and with the mouth that he designed with the others, they speak.

“Good morning, Professor.”

“Hello, Kiibo,” the professor says.

“It is three days until the meteorite hits.”

The Professor bends down to be at eye level with the robot. He has never had a son, nor a daughter, nor any sort of offspring but he considers this robot - how amusing, he thinks, this _robot,_ how others would _laugh_ at him - as his own child. If only this were another world, he thinks, where Kiibo wasn’t designed for passing on the stories of humanity…

…

...Well, then perhaps he would have more time than a handful of months to give them the love they deserved. Perhaps he would have time to raise them like his own child; like one that was human, one that wasn’t meant to live while the rest of them died.

“In three days, Kiibo,” the professor looks at the painting they put on the wall; of the sky when it was beautiful. It’s predicted it will be that way no longer. “I, nor none of the other scientists here will be...here anymore.”

Kiibo looks down. They had programmed feelings into them; and although they cannot cry, he knows he will - and perhaps, will soon - and that they would likely cry if given the chance. But water is something they cannot program to put into them - the function was deemed to unimportant and scrapped. It was predicted that there would be no more water in the atmosphere after the meteorite.

(Unless Kiibo could make it to another planet with water - which, he thought was possible for them, and then program the ability onto themself, then they wouldn’t be able to cry. Although he hated crying, he wanted Kiibo to experience it. Alas. Perhaps in another timeline.)

“I...know, Professor.”

He knows, too.

Kiibo presses their index fingers together. A nervous habit. One that they likely picked up from him; although he pressed his fingers to his temple, he supposes it’s to each their own. But, this aside, they speak once they’re satisfied with letting out the nervous energy in that action.

“I. I will miss you. Professor.”

He blinks.

Kiibo looks up at him, and their eyes have shining hope, shining sadness, all the emotions put into them in case another life form was to be encountered by them and emotions were needed.

“In these few months that I’ve known you, professor, you have raised me like your own child...for that, I am indebted to you,” they look at their hand, not bothered by the weapons required to destroy and fly outside of the lab. “...I do not want to wake up and have you gone, professor.”

The professor wants to cry, really. “Kiibo…”

“...Professor,” they look up, and through the lights that are their eyes he can detect the programmed emotion, and although some will say it’s just coding, he knows it was very real, and this is proof. “Could I perhaps―” they press their fingers together, and their skin gets pinker, “―call you Father? I have looked in my databases and some of the other scientists here think I should think of you so, since you created me.”

The professor wants to _cry._ “Of course, Kiibo.”

For a second, he wants to say, of course, my child. Perhaps in another life; in another world; in another timeline.

But not this one.

(This fact hurts him more than he realizes.)

* * *

Two days remain until the meteorite is expected to hit. He intends to die sitting surrounded by his creations, in his room filled with blueprints and ideas that now, will die with him and never be fulfilled.

(Except Kiibo.)

Some of his fellow employees say that they’ll see him in the afterlife - and that they won’t be attending work tomorrow. He knows why. It’s left unsaid, but the looks give them away. He doesn’t see any shame in it. He says goodbye, and watches them go and knows they’ll all be dead in three days.

But, truth be told, when there is little time left the anxieties set in. He, along with the rest of humanity, have quite the limited time indeed.  

He goes down to the room where Kiibo is, where they are downloading the last of human history into his databases.

“Kiibo?”

“Profe ― Father?” Kiibo pauses, turning away from the computer screen. The hair on their head turns to a question mark, and their eyebrows move to express confusion. “Is there something wrong, Father?”

“Nothing, Kiibo,” he says, sitting down in a chair somewhere in the room. It creaks, as if it knows that it, too, will have its time of destruction soon. “I just...I just wanted you to know just not to give up hope.”

Kiibo looks down in sadness, lacing their fingers together. “I know, Father. I won’t.”

“But,” the professor doesn’t look at them, either. The words, the words he is about to say. They’re heavy, and they’re heavy on his heart and mind as he thinks of how to phrase it. “R...Remember your self-destruction button, Kiibo.”

“My…?”

“Kiibo. You’re capable of your own decisions, and I have forced being humanities hope onto you,” he wrings his hands together. “I just...I just want you to know you’re capable of your own choices now, Kiibo.”

Kiibo’s eyes blink, and they look back up at him once more.

“I want to live on for you, Father.”

It’s his turn to blink now.

He bows his head, and blinking rapidly, knows the tears will fall.

(He doesn’t want to die; he wants to see Kiibo grow. They’re like a child to him.)

“Thank you, Kiibo.”

He leaves the room in a hurry.

* * *

Perhaps it’s knowing that he will die in one day, perhaps it’s knowing he will leave Kiibo in one day, perhaps it’s all the regrets of things he hasn’t done and the things he should have done when he has time, and perhaps it’s a mix of everything that keeps him up at night and staring at the ceiling.

He doesn’t want to die.

Fate is so cruel, isn’t it?  

* * *

One day remains. 24 hours; with every moment passing the number goes down and down and down and down and _down and down ―_

Nobody shows up to work but him today.

* * *

He sits next to Kiibo, and Kiibo sits next to him, and he thinks, if he could grant a thousand wishes, the first would be to raise them like his own child.

“Father?”

“Yes, Kiibo?”

(How many more times will he have left to say that?)

“Do robots go to the afterlife?”

He looks at the wall.

“What do you think, Kiibo?”

They look down at their hands, “I don’t know, Father. I was hoping you would know the answer…”

He blinks, then laughs, patting Kiibo’s head.

“I think you should decide, Kiibo.”

(In his heart, he knows the answer is yes. Kiibo is a pure soul; one that doesn’t deserve this responsibility.)

* * *

10 hours. He does the last check-ups. Everything is working fine. Kiibo knows what to do in case of an emergency, so long as his main AI does not crash.

* * *

9 hours. He does not have any family to speak alone. It’s just him and Kiibo, and he sits next to them. Neither of them know what to say.

* * *

 

8 hours. The news outlets are still reporting, and he doesn’t know why. What’s the point anymore.

* * *

6 hours. Photos of the ever-approaching meteorite flood the internet, and people say their goodbyes, their last thoughts, their everything. Comments everywhere overflow with everyone’s will.

* * *

4 hours. People go onto the streets in crowds, as if to die together.

* * *

2 hours. Kiibo reaches for his hand. He holds it.

* * *

1 hour. Kiibo huddles at the far corner of the room and shuts his eyes. He sleeps.

* * *

30 minutes. Professor Idabashi goes into his bed. It’s close to where Kiibo is, but perhaps it’s cowardice or something else that makes him afraid to look them in the eye in these last moments.  

He stares at the ceiling and a clock that barely works due to age ticks, ticks, ticks. He knows he is crying. He has dressed in his best suit; as if the room is his tomb.

He doesn’t know what Kiibo will do. Their decisions are their decisions now. With him gone, they don’t have anyone holding them back. If they want to build buildings, they can. If they want to destroy buildings, they can.

...If they want to self-destruct, they can.

“...I’m sorry...Kiibo.”

How he wishes things were different.

“...Goodnight, Kiibo.”

He closes his eyes, taking in another breath.

Sleep comes easily; and it will be his last.

* * *

6 minutes.

* * *

4 minutes.

* * *

3.

* * *

60 seconds remain.

* * *

The meteorite comes in contact with the earth. Everything is blown to bits and pieces. Oxygen is sucked out of the atmosphere; all living things die.

* * *

Professor Idabashi dies in his room, crushed by the foundation of his house. He goes as peacefully as one can, surrounded by all the creations but the one he is the most proud of.

* * *

if secondstoimpact == 0:

 

> start (‘STARTUPPROGRAM’)

else:

 

> start (‘DREAMSIMULATOR’)

* * *

 

Kiibo awakes, and they are alone. They go into their databases, of the news programs. The news articles are gone now. Their last updates, published wills, for no other reader but Kiibo.

They, with the boots made from the professor, walks to the room, and, with the strength given to them from the professor, lift the beams off his sleeping figure.

It’s sad. They want to cry. If they could they would, Kiibo knows this.

They lift a beam off of the professors face; and the man is smiling, his glasses crushed but they know the look very well. It’s a sad smile, one that they had seen often on his face. He touches his face, and it’s cold, it’s cold like their own “skin” - but in his memories the professor was always warm-blooded. Always bright, always smiling, no matter if it was a sad one or not. To them, at the very least.

They lie down the professor on his bed. He has fallen from the impact.  

“...Goodbye, Father.”

They leave the room. A lot of things are destroyed; they realize. But not unknown to everyone’s predictions. They blast through the door, and the “outside world” is revealed to them.

Father always wanted to show them the outside world, they thought, but never got the chance. Now they know; but it’s not the world that Father would know. The world then would be more beautiful, more lively, but the meteorite has destroyed all of that.

Kiibo has images in their database, of the sky when it was blue. Now it is red, ugly, and threatening. They print it, and reach to their mouth and hold it up. They don’t think the words “the difference is like night and day” would apply. Day does not exist anymore, does it?

...It’s almost pitiful, they think. This sort of thing…

…

They pause, and they go through their memories again. They aren’t human, they know, and somehow they felt as if Father wanted to raise them as a human child, not a robot. But in order for humanity, they have to act as they were designed - robotic, no matter how many emotions they have, they have nobody to express it to.

They print a photo, and hold it up to the sky, to their eyes.

It’s a photo of Professor Idabashi, their father, smiling.

They shut their eyes, then open them again, flying back down to the ground to stand on some rubble.

“I am the hope of humanity,” Kiibo says, looking down at the photo. They cannot see themself, but they know that they’re smiling a smile similar to his - a sad one. “I will live on for you, Father.”

Nobody responds, and everything is quiet, but they didn’t expect anyone to say anything back in the first place.

It is a statement to their own self. To the souls surrounding them that they cannot see. (To Idabashi.)

It is a promise.


	2. ii: time passes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for referenced death, and, again, spoilers. sorry for the delay!

Kiibo is pleased to find that the stars do still shine. They think it’s curious, that the stars shine so brightly, and remain untouched after all this time. Still shining, yet all of humanity is destroyed.

After everything, they suppose, the galaxy still exists.

They remember that the professor told them once, that some of the stars that they saw in their images of skies was that those stars were already dead. And yet, because of the speed of light - which, they thought, took the “magic” away from the explanation of shining after death - human beings on earth saw it to shine.

Perhaps this must apply to the light the professor gave to them, and the hope humanity had, Kiibo thought.

Father may be dead; yes. But his light still shone in him, as did the thousands of other dead creatures in the world. All once-living, all once-breathing, all filled with hopes and dreams passed onto them.

Hope still exists. They think. No, they _believe,_ that this is proved true. Just as the stars twinkle for the galaxy, they will shine for humanity. That is the best course of action.

They see no need to fly anymore and instead “walk” on the ground, the rubble crunching and shifting ever so slightly beneath their feet. They don’t know what they are looking for. Perhaps they just want to experience the “outdoors” everyone back before the meteorite hit talked about, even if it was evidently not the same anymore.  

The first week passes and Kiibo loops around the city that their father wanted to show them oh-so-desperately but never would. They find themselves in the central plaza, stepping over barely intact vehicles, rubble, dinged-up street signs, collapsed foundations of buildings.

Everything is ruined.

They see bodies and blood. They turn away from that alleyway quickly.

Another three days pass as they explore, and they find what appears to be an old, clearly used and miraculously intact basketball. He wonders which children would play with it - perhaps it’s a young child aspiring to be of a high caliber, maybe it’s a teenager who played for a school team. They don’t know, they realize, and looking around them, they don’t know if they will know.

(They stare at the ball, and it feels suddenly heavier in their hands.)

They decide to take it on their venture.

They find an abandoned shopping outlet, and against the walls of the building that are still relatively upright they bounce the ball back and forth. They’re not very good, and they are unsure how exactly much gravity has changed. But still, Kiibo passes what is likely two hours staring at the ball as it comes back to them time and time again.

At this point, two weeks pass, and Kiibo is unsure what the best course of action is. They want to live for humanity, but, yes, although they don’t plan to give up anytime soon, they have no idea what to do to pass the days.

Time moves on, and they are still unsure what to do. They hope it won’t leave them rusty before they find out what to do.

* * *

Bouncing the ball becomes a normal routine. They throw it against the wall and it comes back, and they have gotten the hang of grabbing it after the initial bounce.

They do it to pass time, alone with their thoughts (quite literally, there is nobody and nothing they will interact with anymore) and they try to teach themself how to bounce the ball from the ground up with one hand instead of both. They shoot for a record they don’t know the number of beating, but their current “high score”, they decide to call, is a mere number of fifteen with their right and six with their left.

...They are getting there, they decide.

In reality, although they do believe they have to live on, they realized, and were hit with the realization quite harshly, that living on can mean a lot of things. Father lived on and created them, but they are sure others lived on and did other things. For example, according to their databases some lived on as people such as presidents while others painted and whatnot. The list is endless and endless and endless and seemingly eternal, extending forevermore despite the fact that there is only one robot left to execute these things - their own self.

And here they are, with the basketball. “Meaningful” is a word that they know, and to live on for humanity is, indeed, meaningful in the sense of carrying out others hopes, but they think that bouncing a ball is something perhaps unmeaningful. They are sure that it is important in some sort of way, perhaps for the owner of the ball who is now dead, but they bounce and think and think and think. They don’t want to just live on for one person, but for everyone.  

Because in the end, bouncing a ball against a wall and struggling to “dribble” with your left hand is probably not what Father had envisioned for them. In the end, hitting a ball does nothing to contribute to humanities current state in any helpful manner, they think. In the end, in the end, in the end, in the end they feel as if they’re doing nothing to help and nothing at all and nothing. And nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

(Nothing “meaningful”, not at all.)

They are simply passing time and nothing at all. Living on but for what - nothing, just the notion that this is for humanity but it does not feel to be. What should they live on for? Father? Father’s coworkers? If so, how? How can they live on?

Perhaps finding a pen and paper and writing down the things that they have told them? To go back and place their bodies on a pedestal? To find them?

(To join them in the afterlife―)

They don’t know, they realize.

Do they even know anything anymore?

They can't quite put it into words - although they have nobody to articulate to and they find that thinking rather than verbally speaking is more convenient - or, thoughts, they suppose, but it does not feel “right”. Nothing feels “right”, nothing they do in how to live on feels like it is “what they should be doing”.

If that makes any sense at all.

(No, it doesn’t, they think.)

(But does anything?)

They are losing track of time and their internal clock says that it has been 34 minutes and 42 seconds and counting but it feels like an eternity of thinking and doubt.  

* * *

They think.

They think, they think, they think they think they think they think they ―

After thinking and thinking and thinking, hitting a new record of eight bounces and then thinking some more, they come to the conclusion that thinking about what to do may not be all too bad of a choice of action.  

Thinking leads to decisions, they conclude, and Kiibo has all the time in the world - not literally, of course, they do not know when they will rust but they know it will not be anytime soon, although they know it will come someday in the far, far future. A future in which they hope they have fulfilled the purpose they which to have fulfilled, anyhow - to decide what they want to do.

What they want to do. Something with impact in a world where nobody can see it, something that will somehow help mend the wounds of the dead, something that would clean a world that is already ―

And then it hits them, and the basketball bounces off the wall and hits them in the knees and they fall down in the wonder of it all to face to sky from their new position on the ground.

Something that would clean a world that is already in ruins.

“That’s it,” they breathe, and they smile at the sky that only they breathe under now, “That’s it! I can clean, to the best of my ability! For everyone!”

They sit up, and they think that it’s something so simple. Yet it’s something so game-changing, they think - it’s something “meaningful” to do. It feels right.

They stand up once more and go to pick up the ball. It has treated them well, they know, but they believe it is time to move on.

On the fifth floor of a shopping outlet, there is a mannequin that has only been knocked over. They arrange it to hold the ball, standing high over the rubble that barely stands.

It’s nice, they think.

* * *

They know this is not how a janitor would usually work with - and they hope to whoever is out there that no janitor ever has to work with this - but they cannot help but make the comparison.

They move away rubble, and they aren’t exactly sure where to put it. They settle for the alleyways. They prop up the bodies of those who were once alive to be half-sitting, half-lying against the alleyway walls.

It looks quite wrong, they think, and they can feel the temperature of their skin to be colder than their own hands, but they know it is the least they can do.

As much as they would want to, after all, they cannot bring back the dead. They wished it wasn’t so, but they think, if such a thing was possible their existence and purpose would likely not have been created in the first place.

Moving is tedious - they almost cannot bring theirself to think, ‘moving bodies’ but they do so, at the very back of their head - and it’s time consuming. Eventually, their first alleyway is filled. They stack rubble to close it off, so the people are not disturbed again.

The smell of death surrounds them. It almost suffocates them. Despite everything, they move on.

(They have to, Kiibo thinks, because that is their purpose. This is how to make a “meaningful” impact. To them, this is the least they can do.)

* * *

Moving rubble is more draining than moving people, they realize. With particularly large objects they cannot do much to move it. With all their upgrades and such, they were never meant to be a fighter - they aren’t as physically strong as anyone they know.

Knew.

They aren’t as physically strong as anyone they _knew._

(They carry on.)

* * *

This tedious work carries on for two more days and two more nights. It’s mindless work, and, like with the basketball, Kiibo finds themself stuck in a loop of thinking and thinking and wondering if this even means anything anymore. At this point, they’ve filled four, five, six, eight alleys and have covered four, in counting.

Metal creaks and what is their equivalent of a human bone aches. Obviously they weren’t built for this. They drop the rubble they’re holding, and it clatters to the ground, barely missing their feet.

Their hands are shaky and it feels almost colder than they usually are. It’s as if they’ve rusted over already, and they don’t want to work.

(A vague memory; of the professor rotating his wrists and having conversations in the laboratory halls with other people. If they remember correctly, it is with a young man named Hikaru, or maybe it’s Haru, or maybe it’s something else entirely. That man had told the professor that he would overwork himself to death, and that nothing would be achieved at this rate.)

They look at their hands, shaking and shaking, and up to the sky, where the sun is setting and the sky almost looks as if it is on fire in all the orange and purples and deep dark reds, a sight different from how Father must have seen but still a breathtaking sight nonetheless. They think, that’s me, but of course it isn’t literal. They aren’t on fire, but they think that if they were human they would be. Not literally - they hope - but on fire, in pain, from all the work they have done.

They sink to the ground, and think, even the sun rests and the moon rises (and, of course, they know that is just from their location, they both rotate but to them this explanation feels much more poetic. The professor liked to dabble in creativity, and they remember thinking that his poems didn’t make sense as they sunk into the dream simulator that was just darkness with no dreams.)

So, even if the sun rests and the moon rises, and the moon rests when the sun rises, they think that as a result of not being able to work they should rest and rise again.

Not that they can really _do_ anything else in this state. They feel...exhausted, in ways they didn’t know they could actually feel. It’s a new feeling, but they are sure that the feeling of overworking oneself is not a pleasant experience at all.

They sit down on the road, leaning against the traffic sign that once would display red, yellow, green.

“Have hope,” they mumble to themself, and it feels odd to hear their voice again. Perhaps it is because of how little they have spoken out loud. “Have hope...nothing will be achieved if I break.”

They sigh, and they stare at the sky, now dipped in different colors, more red and more dark, with the faint speck of the stars that shine down on them so fondly across the colors. It’s different from how it looked like before the meteorite looked before, they note.

Warm colors to cool colors to the black and white of the stars, and they note the location of the brightest one and drift off to sleep.

They rest.

* * *

They awake, and their internal clock tells them that they have slept for thirteen hours. That is a record. It’s almost surprising, but considering how much they have done it makes sense.

They stand, and work again.

* * *

They develop a sort of routine - work for four hours, rest for four, work for four, rest for four more. They know that humans usually are awake for one long period and sleeping for another, but Kiibo wishes to see the stars illuminate their surroundings as they work.

They have grown fond of the stars. If it were another universe, another timeline, a world where humanity was not subjected to such a cruel fate, they would like to see it with Father.

(They’re sure that if the man was alive he would think the same to them.)

* * *

Weeks pass, and this routine continues. By now, they have completed four main streets, and if they fly above they can see that they have much more work to do, but they can see what they have done already.

There is still a lot of work left, yes, and they know that perhaps they will not complete all of it, but they have to believe in the hope that at the very least, it will pay off.

* * *

They decide to explore the parts of the shopping outlet. Like a day off, they think, and they enter it. It’s empty, of course, but they find clothing and furniture. Nothing that they would need, but…

…

They take out two blankets, a pillow, and a mattress at the end of the day.

They set it down next to the streetlight on the road they are currently working on. It is like a break area, they figure.

* * *

Days pass, and they dedicate some more things to their break area. A sort of home place, they decide. They find a board, one with ‘Up to 45% off! Buy two get one free!’ on the back, and flip it over to the opposite side and lie that against the streetlamp, too.

They know what they want to find next, but it takes quite a bit of looking for in a somewhat destroyed outlet. Eventually, they find a stapler and a pack of staples. They aren’t sure how to function the stapler at first.

They leave the outlet, to the break area once more, stapler and staples in hand.

They print out an image of Father and attach it to the board. They realize he didn’t smile much while shifting through their memories to print.

They spend the next hour printing out pictures of him smiling. Even if he is dead, they don’t want to forget.

* * *

They find that it is useful to throw up particularly large pieces and blast it to bits.

It’s a sudden discovery, found when they stared at their hands one rest period, musing. They think, ‘I have very little use of this blaster’, but then it hits them.

They start using that routine the next time they work, the next day. It is a bit messy, they find, but it’s...something.

* * *

They decide to start talking out loud. It is mostly when they realize how little they speak. Just as the blaster had little function until they thought of one, they think of one for speaking. There is no harm done in talking, after all. It is not like anybody is around to judge them for it.

Sometimes, when they are bored they listen to the conversations they used to have with Father, stored in their memory banks and to stay there for as long as they still function. It’s sad, they think.

It’s a sad feeling that they don’t exactly know what to do with. Humanity is dead, and they know it. But the feeling of loneliness is something they want to get rid of, even if they know that attempts at doing so is futile.

They are the only one left.

But even so. As sad and lonely the recordings make them feel, they cannot bring themself to delete them. It’s quite the opposite - they want to cling to these things, cling to them until their last days on earth. As long as that would take.

Physical images, they can print out, but the audio, it is only in their memory banks. There is no way to preserve this, or to make it last outside of them, to make it last forever. They cannot give it a physical form.

They sigh, bringing their knees to their chest and leaning back, against their pillow, against the streetlight. Their speakers play the audio as they lean back and stare at the stars. They have a few hours left in their break time (and they must admit, once they finish going through their recordings they do not know what else they will do.)

The conversation playing through the still atmosphere is one they vaguely remember. In the playing of these recordings, they realize that they have begun to remember a lot more.

(They think they understand why Father looked so sad in their memories.)

In general, they think they understand Father more. Perhaps it is because they have matured. They think, that they know they have changed. They know their purpose and are executing it now, instead of just being told it is what they would do.

It’s an odd feeling, reflection. Because it can bring out several realizations and several emotions.

* * *

_‘Kiibo,’_ says Father, his voice echoing through the area as they watch the stars twinkle above them. _‘You are my proudest creation. I wish…’_

_‘Professor?’_

A beat of silence.

 _‘...It's nothing.’_ he says, and they can hear the sound of footsteps. _‘Let’s go with the standard tests, okay?’_

_‘Okay.’_

_‘Right. Sorry that we do this so many times.’_

_‘Professor Idabashi, this is required to ensure I am in top shape.’_

_‘I just wish it wasn’t everything you did. You deserve better.’_

_‘Professor?’_

_‘...Nothing. Never mind, I’m rambling. Looks like old age is getting to me, Kiibo.’_ he laughs. At the time, they had thought that it was nervous laughter. Now they realize that it is more forced than nervous. Forced nervous laughter, they decide.

_‘Professor, you are only―’_

_‘It’s...it’s a saying, Kiibo.’_

_‘Oh.’_ A beat of silence; of static. If they strain and focus, they can hear the faint classical music that the Professor would listen to. Chopin, they believed it was called. _‘Is it like… ‘it is raining cats and dogs’, Professor?’_

There is a laugh in the audio, and they pull their legs closer to their body. They are lonelier than ever, but they do not stop the recording.

_‘Yes, Kiibo. You’re learning.’_

_‘Thank you, Professor!’_

Even from the audio, they can hear the enthusiasm and joy in their voice. They note that their given break time is up, now, and they pause the audio and for a split second, hover between choosing to keep it paused or to play it again.

They cannot decide, leaving it paused for now. They get up, off the mattress, throwing the blanket off of themself and going to fold it.

“―the noise came around here.”

Kiibo pauses.

“―Yes, I believe so…”

They don’t know those voices.

And they don’t believe there should be any voices besides their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I Wonder What That Could Be. 
> 
> thank you for reading! sorry for how long this took, exam season hit and i didn't write for a while, haha,, but here it is! comments/kudos are very much appreciated, as always. have a great day/night/etc!

**Author's Note:**

> wires by the neighborhood plays on loop for four hours and keeps you up until 5 am 
> 
> ..this'll probably be 2-3 chapters! maybe more. let's see. thank you for reading - kudos/comments are appreciated!! thank you. 
> 
> the rest of the cast will show up. Soon.


End file.
